Lois Bujold - Barrayar

“I have,” said Bothari. “Told him I knew where I could get a better price, and not risk my head later. We may be able to bribe him to help us.”

“You’d trust him?” said Droushnakovi doubtfully.

Bothari grimaced. “As far as I can see him. I’ll try to keep an eye on him, while we’re here. ’Nother thing. I caught a broadcast on his vid in the back room. Vordarian had himself declared Emperor last night.”

Kou swore. “So he’s finally gone and done it.”

“But what does it mean?” asked Cordelia. “Does he feel himself strong, or is it a move of desperation?”

“Last-ditch ploy to try to sway the space forces, I’d guess,” said Kou.

“Will it really attract more men than it offends?”

Kou shook his head. “We have a real fear of chaos, on Barrayar. We’ve tried it. It’s nasty. The Imperium has been identified as a source of order ever since Dorca Vorbarra broke ’the power of the warring counts and unified the planet. Emperor is a real power-word, here.”

“Not to me,” Cordelia sighed. “Let’s get some rest. Maybe by this time tomorrow it’ll all be over.” Hopeful/gruesome thought, depending on how it was construed. She counted the hours over for the thousandth time, one day left to penetrate the Residence, two to get back to Vdrkosigan’s territories … not much to spare. She felt as if she was flying, faster and faster. And running out of turning room.

Last chance to call the whole thing off. A fine misting rain had brought early dusk to the city. Cordelia stared out the dirty window into the slick street, striped with the reflections of a few sickly amber-haloed streetlights. Only a few bundled shapes hurried along, heads down.

It was as if war and the winter had inhaled autumn’s last breath, and blew back out a deathly silence. Nerves, Cordelia told herself, straightened her back, and led her little party downstairs.

The desk was deserted. Cordelia was just deciding to skip such formalities as checking out-they had, after all, paid in advance—when the ’keep came stomping in through the front door, shaking cold drops from his jacket and swearing. He spotted Bothari.

“You! It’s all your fault, you gutless git. We missed it, we bloody missed it, and now someone else will collect. That reward could’ve been mine, should’ve been mine—”

The ’keep’s invective was cut off with a thump as Bothari pinned him to the wall. The man’s toes stretched for the floor as Bothari’s suddenly feral face leaned into his. “What happened?”

“One of Vordarian’s squads picked up that fellow. Looks like he led them back to his partner, too.” The ’keep’s voice wavered between anger and fear. “They’ve got them both, and I’ve got nothing!”

“Got them?” Cordelia repeated sickly.

“Picking ’em off right now, damn it.”

There might still be a chance, Cordelia realized. Command decision or tactical compulsion, it hardly mattered now. She grabbed a stunner out of the satchel; Bothari stepped back and she buzzed the ’keep where he stood openmouthed. Bothari shoved his inert form behind the desk. “We have to try for them. Drou, break out the rest of the weapons. Sergeant, lead us there. Go!”

And so she found herself running down the street toward a scene any right-minded Barrayaran would run the other way to avoid, a night-arrest by security forces. Drou kept up with Bothari; Koudelka, burdened with the satchel, lagged behind. Cordelia wished the mist were thicker.

The Vorpatrils’ bolt-hole turned out to be two blocks down and one over, in a shabby narrow building much like the one they’d spent the day in. Bothari held up a hand, and they peered cautiously around the corner, then drew back. Two Security groundcars were parked out front of the little hostel, covering the entrance. But for themselves, the area was strangely deserted. Koudelka came panting up behind.

“Droushnakovi,” said Bothari, “circle around. Get a cross-fire position covering the other side of those groundcars. Watch out, they’re sure to have men at the back door.”

Yes, street tactics were clearly Bothari’s call. Drou nodded, checked her weapons’ charges, and walked as if casually across the corner, not even turning her head. Once out of the enemy’s line of sight, she flowed into a silent run.

“We got to get a better position,” Bothari muttered, risking his head once more around the corner. “Can’t bloody see.”

“A man and a woman walk down the street,” Cordelia visualized desperately. “They stop to talk in a doorway. They goggle curiously at the security men, who are engrossed in their arrest—would we pass?”

“Not for long,” said Bothari, “once they spot our energy weapons on their area scanners. But we’d last longer than two men. It’s going to move fast, when it moves. Might pass just long enough. Lieutenant, cover us from here. Have the plasma arc ready, it’s all we’ve got to stop a vehicle.”

Bothari shoved his nerve disruptor out of sight under his jacket. Cordelia tucked her stunner in the waistband of her skirt, and lightly took Bothari’s arm. They strolled around the corner.

This was a really stupid idea, Cordelia decided, matching steps to Bothari’s booted stride. They should have set up hours ago, if they’d been going to try an ambush like this. Or they should have hooked Padma and Alys out hours ago. And yet—how long ago had Padma been spotted? Might they have fallen into some long-laid trap, and gone down together? No might-have-beens. Pay attention to the now.

Bothari’s steps slowed, as they approached a deep shadowed doorway. He swung her in, and leaned with his arm on the wall, close to her. They were near enough now to the arrest scene to catch voices. Snatches of crackle from the comm links carried clearly in the damp air.

Just in time. Despite the shabby shirt and trousers, Cordelia readily recognized the dark-haired man pinned against the groundcar by one guard as Captain Vorpatril. His face was marred with a grated, bleeding contusion and swollen lips, pulled back in a stereotypical fast-penta-induced smile. The smile slipped to anguish, and back again, and his giggles choked on moans.

Black-clad security men were bundling a woman out the hostel door and into the street. The security team’s attention was drawn to her; Cordelia’s and Bothari’s, too.

Alys Vorpatril wore only a nightgown and robe, with her feet jammed bare into flat shoes. Her dark hair was loose, flowing down wildly around her white face; she looked a fair madwoman. She was indeed conspicuously pregnant, black robe falling open around her white-gowned belly. The guard manhandling her had her arms locked behind her; her legs splayed for balance against his backward pull.

The guard commander, a full colonel, checked a report panel. “That’s it, then. The lord and the heir.” His eye locked to Alys Vorpatril’s abdomen; he shook his head as if to clear it, and spoke into his comm link. “Pull back, boys, we’re done here.”

“What the hell are we supposed to do about this, Colonel?” asked his lieutenant uneasily. His voice blended fascination with dismay as he walked over to Lady Vorpatril and lifted her gown high. She had gained weight, these last two months; her chin and breasts were rounded, thighs thickened, belly padded out. He poked a curious finger deep into that soft white flesh. She stood silent, trembling, face on fire with rage at his liberty and eyes glistening dark with tears of fear. “Our orders are to kill the lord and the heir. It doesn’t say her. Are we supposed to sit around and wait? Squeeze? Cut her open? Or,” his voice went persuasive, “maybe just take her back to HQ?”

The guard holding her from behind grinned and ground his hips into her buttocks, mock—thrusts of unmistakable meaning. “We don’t have to take her straight back, do we? I mean, this is Vor meat. What a chance.”